


All That Remains Unsaid

by wilhuffnpuff



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: I have no idea what this is honestly, M/M, No Plot, character study/slice of life?, dumb gross old men who really shouldn't be in a relationship but they kind of are, implied Galennic, krennic has a cute lisp, krennic nearly loses his shit after successfully escaping Sacrif, not canon, passive aggressive emails are exchanged, tarkin is not impressed, tarkin would rather eat glass than admit it, tarkin's hairline is subject to ridicule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhuffnpuff/pseuds/wilhuffnpuff
Summary: In the wake of old rivalries and betrayals, two of the most powerful men in the Empire find themselves bizarrely entangled.  And that little incident on Scarif?  It wasn't personal, really.  Or so Tarkin claims...





	1. not for nothing

**Author's Note:**

> A weird little fic I've been updating solely on Tumblr. I've decided to start posting it up here for posterity! This is my very first fanwork and it's been a gratifyingly fun experience. A very hyperfocused but relatively mild take on Tarkin and Krennic.

Lately, there has been an abundance of time for reflection. 

Wilhuff Tarkin finds himself lingering in front of the viewport long after the bridge has emptied.Reflection isn’t his favorite activity, as it usually devolves into an endless circular affair in which he scrutinizes nearly every decision he has made in his life.Everything between the cunning, the monstrous, the idiotic and the ingenious.Layers upon layers of decisions, each with various branches of sub-decisions.He proceeds to analyze every potential alternative direction he could have taken in order to change the current outcome—ceaseless rumination.He often wonders whether he will be the weaver of his own demise. 

In the reflection of the viewport glass, Wilhuff can see someone in white standing behind him.White that doesn’t belong here or there or anywhere.It never has and never will, but there he stands, belligerent as always.

Immediately his thoughts return to Scarif.A transparent display of impulsivity, but ultimately one that he doesn’t regret.Scarif was nothing more than a resort masquerading as a military base.Stars only know why the Imperial archives were kept there.He is at first mildly regretful over the death toll, but the sentiment is short lived and quickly replaced with overwhelming indifference.

Though he has to admit to himself that Orson’s survival and unlikely success in retrieving the battle station schematics from the clutches of the Rebellion is a curious phenomenon.How Orson managed to escape the base before its annihilation, Wilhuff does not know. The report remains unread and undoubtedly plagued with a grandiose litany of excuses.Orson is simply a persistent man, persistence being just one of his countless personality defects. 

They have not interacted since Krennic’s delivery of the station schematics, though Wilhuff hasn’t been blind to the Director’s reproachful glances and deliberate skulking around the bridge.To even call it a delivery would be far too generous.It was something like farcical theatre, a petulant whirlwind of white and a furious tossing of the plans across the room.Wilhuff remembers watching the metallic casing skid across the floor and wondering whether the Director had lost his mind.He also remembers the Director, with trademark flourish, turning on his heels and marching from the room with his cape billowing gently behind him, knowing that Wilhuff has almost certainly executed people for lesser transgressions.

Krennic is still standing there, persistent, demanding.The governor indirectly makes eye contact with him through the reflection on the viewport glass.Krennic boldly pushes forward.

“Salient II. ”He stands at Wilhuff’s side, arms folded and eyes focused on the star system in front of them, as if something interesting is there amongst the myriad clusters and pinpoints of light. 

“What about it?” Wilhuff sighs, suddenly and inexplicably exhausted.

“It appears you still have some unresolved feelings.”

“Your double crossing schemes are a mere footnote in my military career, Orson.”

“I’m positively _devastated_ to hear that.”

“And I’m not one to dwell in the past.”

“Well then,” Krennic turns from the viewport and faces Tarkin directly, glares up at him with open defiance.“Forgive me of my skepticism, _Wilhuff_.”

The governor looks at Krennic for a very long time.Krennic still pronounces his name wrong.Tarkin considers correcting him, but what would that accomplish?Nothing but more ammunition for the Director to grate on his nerves.He listens to the creaking of leather as Krennic compulsively flexes his left hand.Observes the undercurrent of fury in Krennic’s deeply blue irises, and that tangible something else.That unmentionable thing that has, on multiple occasions, driven them to each other’s private quarters. 

“Speaking of the past,” Wilhuff says, hovering close over the Director.“Scarif lies squarely within in it.It would behoove you to resolve _your_ feelings about that.”His voice is soft but his eyes are terrible and pale in the gentle glow of the stars, harbingers of dangerous things. 

But it means nothing to Orson.He has lately found the governor’s methods of intimidation to be lacking.Intimate knowledge has a way of eroding even the most impenetrable of barriers.

The Director offers Wilhuff a false smile.“And what did you tell the Emperor regarding its senseless destruction?Did your hand slip unwittingly over the control panel?A moment of senility, perhaps?Trigger happy and too much caf?” 

“That’s none of your concern.It has been dealt with.And what of the exhaust port?”

“It has been _dealt with_.”Krennic brings a gloved hand to his mouth, thumb and forefinger rub anxiously against the other.He does not elaborate. 

They are both quiet for a few moments.Alone in the bridge now, with only the stars as witness.Wilhuff, burdened by a web of decisions.Orson, nearly reduced to collateral damage.And ashes. 

Erso remains a sensitive topic.

Simple deduction points to the irrefutable fact that the entire project is compromised.The doctrine is compromised.The millions contained within the battle station’s massive hull—all compromised.Twenty years invested.It couldn’t have been for nothing. 

And yet, Wilhuff finds himself bracing for it.

The Director gazes at Wilhuff’s sharp profile for a time, jutting bones and downcast eyes.Wilhuff with his hand pressed against thin lips, thumb and forefinger absently rubbing against the other. 

Orson has laid hands upon those bones.He has become familiar with that mouth and the sounds it can make.Soft exhalations, breathy sighs.Impossible sounds.He has laid hands around that thin waist and he has found the warm pulse in that long neck.

Wilhuff watches Orson’s white reflection retreat into the shadows of the bridge.

Later, sequestered within his private quarters, Wilhuff watches with unsuppressed curiosity the holoprojector security feed of the entrance.The Director, in top-down view, has been standing at the door for several minutes, undoubtedly engaged with some kind of internal crisis.Unable to proceed and unwilling to leave.

Of all the decisions that Wilhuff has ever made—the cunning, the monstrous, the idiotic, the ingenious—this one is perhaps the most controversial of all.Stupid, even.Irredeemably stupid. 

There will always be time to reflect upon it later. 

He opens the door.


	2. distractions

Krennic is frozen at the entrance to the governor’s abode.Refuge is sought in unlikely places.

There is a stillness in the north pole of the death star.The gravity, in spite of the compensators, feels off in this sector.Under normal circumstances this would be a minor source of discomfort, but Krennic’s focus is elsewhere.In the deepest recesses of his mind he can still hear the echoes of blaster shots, the reverberations of panicked shouts and screams floating through fluorescent hallways.Explosions continued to fester throughout the base and he felt the vibrations of this chaos deep in his bones.He took matters into his own hands not by choice but by necessity.When he found her up on the transmission tower, he didn’t hesitate.The shot was fired as she triumphantly uttered her name. 

The child fell and joined Galen. 

And Orson saw him, Galen sprawled and ruined.Galen and the child.The child and Galen.He had shuddered then, wracked with some kind of inarticulate emotion.Hundreds of feet below, a raging war.X-Wings and TIE fighters careening across a clear blue sky, walkers thundering over pristine sand.Bodies in the gentle multifaceted waters.On the ground, Orson walked freely amongst this carnage and hijacked a vessel as the Death Star emerged from hyperspace travel. 

The force of the blast nearly tore the vessel apart as it breached the atmosphere. 

That same force has propelled him here, at this moment, to the governor’s door.How odd, Orson thinks, that he is safer here than on the placid sands of Scarif.But even so, he carries a hyposyringe in his pocket with a sedative strong enough to take out a rancor.Or one stubborn Grand Moff.It’s unlikely he’ll ever have to make use of it, but precautions never hurt.

The entrance slides open.

Orson wanders through a series of dimly lit passages until he eventually finds the governor’s room.The decor is minimal and utilitarian, easily passing for the quarters of a lower ranking officer.On instinct Orson is once again thinking of various ways to improve the space—he would raise the ceiling several feet and widen the window so that it covers the full length of the room.The color scheme of the floor and the furniture require unification.The drab grays and lack of focal point are pitiful on the eyes.Too much function, not enough finesse.Wilhuff Tarkin, personified.

His interest is piqued by a glass shelving unit and the various ship replicas displayed within it.Amongst them is a corvette of a particular design that Orson hasn’t seen the likes of anywhere else.He’s heard whisperings of the governor’s personal vessel and the advanced cloaking technology nestled within.He lays covetous eyes on it, knowing there’s little hope of ever possessing such a marvel. 

“That is the _Carrion Spike_.” 

Orson turns away from the shelf.Wilhuff is seated at his desk with a data pad, illuminated by a series of holo projections. 

“It’s a fine vessel.”

Wilhuff sets aside his Companion, threads his fingers together.Though Krennic has already encroached upon his space more than several times, the sight of the man in his quarters still bears an element of the surreal.The left hand fidgets.The rank bar is slightly crooked.The large expressive eyes are currently complacent but Wilhuff knows how quick they are to effortlessly shift towards intense cruelty.Or perhaps boyish wonder, in the wake of a superlaser blast and the gentle rise of a blooming dust cloud. 

“I observed your hesitation at the door.”The governor sits back in his chair, tilts his head slightly.He is expressionless save for the glimmering hint of amusement in his heavy lidded eyes. 

“I was taking the time to calculate the likelihood of an attempt on my life.”

“It’s very interesting you bring that up, Orson.As I’m not the one currently flaunting a blaster at my hip.”

“Oh, _this_ little thing?”Orson glances down at his DT-29 as if it were some trivial detail.“I’d nearly forgotten it’s there.But never mind that.I come in peace.I have decided to _forgive_ you of your error.”

Wilhuff raises a brow.“And to what do I owe this grand gesture of good will?”

The Director shrugs, reaches a hand towards his shoulders, unclipping the cape from his tunic.He lets it fall and settle onto the floor.“I’m still breathing.Either work with me or against me.There’s little else to discuss.”

What has changed?Wilhuff watches as Orson boldly meanders towards his bed.What compels him?Ferocious determination and an insatiable desire to live.His ordeal on Scarif a gift unwittingly bestowed by the governor, an experience in which the Director has realized new potential within himself.Truly, he is a bitter miracle to behold.A man who has successfully navigated the spectrum from apathy and disdain all the way to begrudging acceptance.And the unmentionable things that follow.

Within several moments they are entangled, lying in bed.Wilhuff sighs, gazes at the ceiling.“I wish to take a long, relaxing coma.” 

“A permanent one would suit you.”Orson strokes the governor’s inner wrist, running his thumb over a delicate vestigial tendon.His voice is low and husky.“I have a sedative that might do the trick.”

“Your boundless generosity overwhelms me.”

“Tell me, Wilhuff.” Orson slides on top of the governor, straddling him.His breath whispers over the hollow of the grand moff’s cheek.“Is there even the _slightest_ sentiment of gladness for my survival within that desiccated lump in your chest that passes for a heart?”He peers down into Wilhuff’s darkening eyes.“Is this how you treat all your lovers, I wonder?Or do you reserve such passion only for me?”With unparalleled insolence he rubs up against the governor, depraved and already aroused to hardness. 

Wilhuff grasps Orson’s chin, flushed with the promise of soft flesh under his fingertips and the weight of eager hips against his own.What follows is lips and tongue and breath exchanged with rapidly escalating fervency.

Orson is nearly breathless, but it doesn’t matter.Better to suffocate than risk the conversation they are both avoiding. 

Or acknowledge the refuge he finds in a face that he once despised, in spite of its strange beauty.


	3. something keenly felt

When Wilhuff wakes he is already tired.He dreamt of large hands skimming over his hipbones, or perhaps it had happened in the space between consciousness and sleep.In this nebulous state there are ferocious blue eyes and conspiratorial smiles.Murmurings on the nape of his neck.Breath that shouldn’t be there. 

He partly blames Orson.But most of the blame is placed on himself.Wilhuff and his fathomless web of decisions all culminating to this moment.

Their relationship, if one could call it that, is in flagrant violation of code 44-12.Not that any of this matters—blind adherence to protocol has never appealed to the governor.The meddlesome Director isn’t going anywhere, as there appears to be some unspoken understanding between them that this dalliance hasn’t reached its end.Wilhuff meditates on this unfortunate fact, idly stroking hair on the precipice of silver.Hair that should have been dust, scattered into the calm atmosphere of Scarif, which should have been the Director’s burial sky.

Orson looks like a younger man while under the influence of sleep.Soft and unburdened with the muscle memories of rage, self importance, cunning charm.And what does Wilhuff look like when he’s dreaming?He doesn’t know, nobody has ever told him.He thinks he might resemble a well-preserved corpse.Though if he allows the Rebellion to succeed, there won’t be any corpse.There will be nothing but the broken innards of Orson’s vision, a silent graveyard of metal and decay floating in the serene vacuum of space.

The hidden file had been called _Stardust_.Aptly named.

There is a new vulnerability burrowing under his skin, haunting him underneath the surface even as he performs the most banal of tasks—conducting meetings, replying to messages on his data pad, drinking his morning caf, taking a piss.The station is no longer a bastion of stability, no longer Wilhuff’s center.The technoscape that was once a sensation has downgraded into a death trap of astonishing proportion.A metal ball in the sky with a fatal weakness that is beyond disaster, beyond ruination.The political and economic fallout all immeasurable.Wilhuff doesn’t know of a word from any of the various languages of the galaxy that can properly convey this scale of catastrophe.

Perhaps the father of the Death Star would know.

Krennic reclines languid and half awake amongst disarrayed sheets and pillows, watches the grand moff dress himself.An impossibly thin frame with not even the slightest hint of excess, consisting of nothing but skin, muscle and bone.His backside ragged with old scars, remnants of near death encounters.Articulately defined hands adjusting his tunic and high collar, slipping a black belt around his slender waist.Wilhuff gazes into a mirror as he attaches his rank badge and code cylinders, arranging and rearranging until some kind of arbitrary standard is satisfied.As he is doing this, he captures Krennic in the mirror’s reflection, silently observing with open appreciation. 

A subtle, knowing smile and then it’s gone so quickly that Krennic wonders if he’d imagined it. 

The governor turns away from the mirror.“You sleep very lightly.”

“A necessity, in consideration of our recent history.” Orson replies softly. 

“Yet you keep coming back.”

“And you keep letting me in.What are we to do about this?”

Wilhuff sits on the edge of the bed, leans closely over the Director, close enough for Krennic to see the dark limbal rings around his irises.“What _are_ we to do about this?” 

“I propose we do nothing.”Krennic suppresses the urge to lay his hands on the governor’s waist, laments the barrier of clothing between them.He wonders why, of all things, the governor chooses to wear lavallel with its subtle scent of woodland pine and floral undercurrents.The concoction makes Orson drowsy when he leans in close, rendering him boneless even in the midst of their lovemaking or hatefucking and everything in between. He also wonders how it is that those pale eyes, barely an inch away, still manage to achieve great distance.They pierce through him, through walls of durasteel, through miles of artificially lit corridors, through the immense quadanium hull of the ship itself and into the beyond.

“Nothing,” Wilhuff says slowly, considering the word with leisure.“Then that renders this conversation rather pointless, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll admit it is a circular one.”

“Yes,” Wilhuff straightens and rises from the bed.“It is a circular one indeed.”

When the governor’s weight is lifted from the mattress, Orson misses it.He doesn’t bother rationalizing how this has come to pass.He thinks that he may understand, on some base and subconscious level, that Wilhuff is familiar to him in spite of their stark differences.Unlike a certain individual in his life whose name he doesn’t care to think of.

Both men, of course, have betrayed him.But one went through the trouble of a deception so utterly complete, so elaborate as to render his past incoherent and robbed of narrative.So what does it matter now that he’s had his way with the grand moff?Betrayal and treachery are the standard, commonplace in the upper echelons of the Empire.They are as familiar to Krennic as the vast schema of his greatest achievement. 

Orson picks up the pieces of his uniform that had been carelessly strewn around the room hours earlier.Underneath his trousers, which had been tossed onto a nightstand, he finds Wilhuff’s data pad, a sleek Companion8000 model. 

“Would you kindly pass that to me?”The governor is seated at his desk, brooding over a cup of caf. 

When Krennic walks over, he neglects to hide the prominent bulge tenting his undergarment.Tarkin spares it little more than an absent glance.

After a few moments of study, Tarkin looks up from the data pad.“You have amended your report.” 

“Yes.After some additional calculations, I have decided that we require more time to—“

“ _Five months_?”Tarkin bristles.“That’s _completely_ unacceptable.I recall you very recently stating that the situation had been _dealt with._ That’s a direct quote.”

Krennic pulls on his trousers, graces Tarkin with a reproachful glance.“That’s what it’s going to take. _Yes_ , I have arranged temporary defense maneuvers, but in the long term this is insufficient.We have no option but to take the station offline and retreat to another classified destination while the alterations take effect.I suggest you call a meeting now and arrange it.I would have done this myself, had you not usurped my position.” 

When Wilhuff looks at him, Krennic swears that the fury is palpable.White hot and smoldering underneath that feverishly warm skin, if one were to look hard enough.But in spite of it all, Wilhuff is contained.Unleashing his frustration on Orson would accomplish nothing, save for a perverse gratification that he currently does not have the luxury of pursuing.Indeed, had Orson perished on Scarif, they would not be in the advantageous position of preemptively correcting the structural weakness the Rebel Alliance craves to exploit. 

A faint bloom of red appears on Wilhuff’s sharp cheekbones as he considers the notion of falling prey to his own hubris.

“We are vulnerable, Wilhuff.I know you understand that.And I know that you’re concerned, very deeply concerned.”

“Yes,”Tarkin sighs, averting his eyes elsewhere.“We are quite vulnerable.” Is he truly that transparent?Can Orson truly see it? 

“Then I will leave you to it.”Krennic attaches his belt, slides his blaster into its holder.“And I hope you make the right decision.We must retreat.Otherwise, the risk—no matter how small, will continue to plague you.”He offers Wilhuff a sly smile, finger toying with the grip of his blaster.“I’m almost beginning to suspect you’re an agent of the Rebellion, helpful to their cause as you have lately proven.”

Tarkin’s face remains unchanged.

“That was a joke.I make them sometimes.”

“Then I suggest you avoid making a career out of it.”

“And now you’ve done a joke.Was that so hard?”

“I’ve been known to make them on occasion.”

Krennic releases a quiet scoff of disbelief and dismisses himself.

Wilhuff watches the Director turn and make way for the door, cape trailing gently behind.“Orson.”

Krennic pauses, peers over his shoulder. 

The grand moff smiles, and it is genuine, and it is as perturbing as it is thrilling. 

“Sleep lightly.” 


	4. interlude - communications 1

**from** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**to** : Orson Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**date** : Centaxday / Month 8 / Day 17 / 0 BBY / 1100  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

Director,

I don’t claim to possess any intricate expertise in engineering, thermodynamics nor of the reactor core that powers this vessel, but surely it doesn’t take standard months on end to close a structural weakness no larger than 2 meters wide. Simply put, the timetable which you have provided is _unacceptable_. As you’re already aware, the Emperor is very anxious to begin the dissolution of the Senate and proceed with the demonstration.

The unfolding of the plans can only be stalled for so long.

I have covered for your grievous errors and gross negligence long enough. The prospect of continuing to do so, at the risk of my professionalism and reputation, is nothing less than obscene.

____________________________________________________________________________________

  
**from** : Orson Callan Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**to** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2100  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

Governor:

I reiterate—to successfully carry out the solution proposed, we must not only redesign the exhaust port itself but also the _kilometers of passage_ to which the port is connected. Additionally, consider that this solution requires the acquisition of special materials and the construction of highly sensitive components.

The politics are unfavorable, but do what you must. That’s your area of _expertise_ , as it were. I’ll see to the structural problem on my end.

With the REASONABLE timetable that I have laid out.

What appears to be gross negligence from your perspective is, in actuality, treachery beyond my control.

____________________________________________________________________________________

  
**from** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**to** : Orson Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2100  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

  
Your reluctance to assume the slightest modicum of responsibility baffles me even to this day.

____________________________________________________________________________________

  
**from** : Orson Callan Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**to** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2200  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

  
Do you miss me already, Wilhuff? I can’t think of any other reason why you’ve chosen to initiate this pointless round of communications. Let me come to your rooms and give you what you obviously want, and we can put this ridiculous pretense behind us.

____________________________________________________________________________________

  
**from** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**to** : Orson Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2200  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

  
It is extremely fortunate for you that these communications are encrypted.

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 **from** : Orson Callan Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**to** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2200  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

  
I’m coming to your quarters.

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 **from** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**to** : Orson Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2200  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

No.

____________________________________________________________________________________

  
**from** : Orson Callan Krennic <OrsonCallanKrennic.DS1>  
**to** : Wilhuff Tarkin <WilhuffTarkin.DS1>  
**date** : Taungsday / Month 8 / Day 18 / 0 BBY / 2200  
**subject** : re: Status update  
**sent via** : Imperial Holonet

Yes.

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 


	5. peace and silence

Krennic enjoys the weight of the DT-29 blaster in his hands, in spite of the unwelcome memories carried with it. He thinks of the Erso girl, her unwavering eyes locked onto his with proud defiance. He thinks of Galen in those last few moments, discarded and broken. Lyra, the wretched enchantress. All destroyed.  
  
The shooting range is mostly empty, leaving the Director alone to ruminate over the blood on his hands, amongst other things. He raises his left hand and his black leather glove creaks and he pulls the trigger, striking a holographic target in the shape of a human. The heavy pistol has a powerful recoil, enough to throw him off balance if he isn’t careful, though this was the last thing on his mind as he ended the girl’s life. The family haunts him on occasion, they drift in and out of his consciousness and infiltrate his dreams and whisper buried truths with piercing conviction in their eyes. Their presence is felt much more acutely than the thousands of lives he unilaterally extinguished on Jedha.

He reminds himself, as he reloads his blaster, that human emotion is frequently rife with contradictions. His absurd gravitation towards Wilhuff is hard evidence of that. The fact that Tarkin betrayed him and still breathes is nothing less than madness. Mourning for the Erso family is madness multiplied several times over. Tarkin shouldn’t be breathing and the Erso family has been erased from past, present and future.

Krennic steadies himself and takes another deafening shot, once again striking his target. Lately he cannot escape the notion that he is grasping for something that is achingly out of reach, slipping through his fingers like Scarif sand. More fodder for dreams, or nightmares. When he sleeps he often revisits the Futures Program and finds himself wandering and lost, woefully unprepared for an exam that is going to determine whether he passes or fails an important course. It is always the same and this dream drives him mad.

Oh, the _potentiality_. The _things_ that could have come to pass if only he had received Galen’s full cooperation. The inception of something legendary. Of a greatness that transcends the petty squabbles of a species hellbent on self destruction millennia after millennia.

 _That_ is something worth grasping for.

Krennic lowers his weapon. The smell of burnt ozone wafts through the air. He doesn’t notice that his hand trembles and quakes. With a violent sweep of his arm he tosses the DT-29 across the room. It clatters loud and discordant against the floor.

He imagines what it would sound like if his pistol were to instead make hard and satisfying contact with Wilhuff’s stubborn thick skull.

The trajectory of their relationship is almost incomprehensible. He knew, from the very moment he met the governor, that he disliked him.  Disliked him _immensely_. Krennic also knew, that fateful day when Tarkin scoffed at his big ball in the sky, that their destinies would be unspeakably entwined in more ways than one. This conclusion was solidified when they made eye contact at the Galaxies Opera House on Coruscant.

Krennic, emboldened by the shadows and the droning ambiance of the theatre, had thought to himself— _He’s going to look away. And then he's going to look back and stroke his jawline_. Tarkin did. To this day, Krennic is unsure what compelled him to smile. He had not yet formulated a plan, an angle from which to manipulate. It was just the two of them, fumbling with clasps and buttons and zippers in the darkness amongst luxuriously soft sheets spiced with lavallel. Wilhuff left bite marks on places where Orson had never been kissed, gave Orson everything he never knew he wanted. Two great egos on a collision course to oblivion. _He is not much unlike myself_ , Krennic thought with audacious realization when he first collapsed onto the governor’s long torso. Perhaps an eerie kinship is shared even amongst those who claim to have no desire or use for such things. Krennic exists for Krennic and nobody else. The rest are simply tools to further his agenda, even his allies and friends.

What Wilhuff is to him, he has never quite worked out.

Years have passed and little has changed. Wilhuff’s skull is still stubbornly thick and Orson daily finds himself wanting to smack it with blunt objects. Deep in his mind he knows, _he knows_ he would have done the same, had he been in Wilhuff’s position looking down at Scarif and faced with the prospect of a devastating security breach. How could he not? It was predictable as anything else. _Betrayal and treachery_ , he reminds himself. _Commonplace. Standard protocol. Necessary._ Yet it stings something fierce and tastes bitter in his mouth, clenching his throat. Stealing his breath. The elation and horror of invoking Tarkin’s wrath affects him to the core of his being.

____

He feels. At long last.

Later, as Krennic prepares to give the governor a status update on the exhaust port modifications, he nearly confesses his outrage. But now is not the time. He finds Tarkin alone in the imperial briefing room studying a holoprojection of planet Alderaan, so deeply preoccupied that he barely reacts to the intrusion. Tarkin’s profile is sharp against the backdrop of brutally minimalistic gray walls, dire hollows under his cruel cheekbones exaggerated beneath the overhead lighting. He pensively strokes his angular jawline, for a moment resembling the distant stone countenance of a brooding ancient philosopher that one might commonly observe in a museum.

Krennic slowly paces around the holoprojection of Alderaan, hands clasped behind his back. “Contemplating the location for your _retirement_ home? Excellent choice. Clear blue sky, lush green hills and valleys. Placid landscapes for days. The antithesis of that Carrion plateau you keep going on about.”

Krennic is tired of the Carrion plateau. Tired of being regaled with lurid accounts of Wilhuff slipping into the warm carcasses of dead beasts for shelter against the elements. Accounts of near death that are conveniently ( suspiciously ) followed up with an unlikely stroke of luck or a sudden push of plucky determination. Oddly enough he finds himself more interested in the life Wilhuff left behind, wondering if the Carrion merely brought into focus what was already there, lurking beneath the surface. He has trouble even envisioning Wilhuff as a boy. It’s far easier to imagine Tarkin crawling out of the womb a ruthless old husk, ready to reap the unfortunate souls who provoke his ire. When Orson once shared with Tarkin this thought, Tarkin laughed spontaneously. An expression of candid mirth which Orson found striking in its sheer rarity. He had wanted to preserve the moment, take this beautiful rare thing and inspect it from all angles.

Tarkin meets Krennic with penetrating blue eyes alight with a tenacious fire. “I hate to disappoint you Director, but I seek no retirement until the day I take my last dying breath.”

Krennic, with a slight tilt of his head: “ _Disappointed_? On the contrary—How would I _ever_ pass the time without a rival to work against?”  
  
“You flatter yourself. You aren’t any rival of mine.”

“You lie.”

“I mean it.”

“Rival or not, your resolve against my charm is wearing thinner than your rapidly receding hairline.”

Tarkin smiles sedately. It’s like the slow unfurling of a predator’s wings. “You seem to have confused _charm_ with _dogged persistence_. I presume you have something useful for me other than cheap jests against my hairline?”

Orson leans informally against the briefing table, crosses his arms. He has always enjoyed the vicious mellifluousness of Tarkin’s voice, with its impeccable pronunciation and haughty cadence. Whenever Orson takes the time to parse his feelings about their relationship, he always comes back to the lure of Wilhuff’s voice. How it persuades, how it expertly disarms his fury. How it whispers warm against the back of his neck, simultaneously civilized and wild as he enters Orson and sheds the last of his restraint.

There is some envy there too—Orson’s own voice is afflicted with the suggestion of a lisp. No matter his efforts, he still does not quite fit in amongst the elite of the Imperial briefing table, whose accents are effortless and backgrounds prestigious and moneyed. It does not help that Wilhuff teases him about it incessantly, petty as the man often is.

Still, Orson perseveres.

“I have a status update for you, _governor_. Sit back, relax. Or stand. Whatever.”

Krennic dims the lights in the room and brings up a large holoprojection of DS-1. “As you already know, the first order of business was to strengthen the architecture of the reactor core’s chamber.”

He tilts the bright blue schematics and zooms in on a rectangular structure highlighted in red. “The core will be protected by an additional layer of doonium steel. The extra material is currently being mined from a classified asteroid belt within reasonable range of the station. As for the thermal exhaust port itself, our engineers have decided to close it completely, opting instead to embed microscopic heat dispersion tubes into the wall. In order to ensure that the heat generated from the reactor is dispersed safely throughout the structure, there will be several more ports of this nature constructed, each utilizing the same technique, rendering them invulnerable to penetration.”

Wilhuff examines the locations of the additional ports, all placed in locations equidistant to the other. “Assume that an enemy squadron small enough to bypass the station’s initial defenses makes it through the hull. They’re very much aware that they must somehow reach the reactor to detonate the core. Other than the chamber containing the core itself, have the surrounding passages been safeguarded?”

“I was getting to that.” Krennic glances at Tarkin, face washed pale in the blue light of the projection, large eyes brilliant in the stark luminosity. “In fact, that was the next order of business. Strengthening our defenses in the surrounding corridors to ensure that ventilation passages cannot be breached.” He zooms out and walks the governor through the vast multitude of force fields and gates designed to hinder the passage of aircraft. “These will all run on a system of power separate from the rest of station. In the unlikely event that DS-1 goes dark, these…“ Krennic gestures to the dozens upon dozens of red dots overlaying a weaving of passages. “…will all remain intact.”

“Go on.” Tarkin stalks closer to Krennic, slow and deliberate. He observes closely the dark enthusiasm of this fey silver haired man who lovingly pores over war machine schematics. It has become increasingly apparent to the governor that Krennic desperately, _desperately_ wants the project to succeed. Tarkin had known it all along, on some superficial level, but the evidence now is undeniable. The Director is hopelessly enamored with his project.

Krennic, acutely cognizant of the governor’s movements, continues. “While the core itself would still be well protected in the event of a power loss, it’s obviously a less than ideal situation. So we are currently in the process of upgrading the security of our networks to prevent hackers from breaching the system. To supplement this, there are now ten additional top-level security clearances. All high level officers, yourself included, will shortly receive a briefing.”

“Does this mean I have to change all of my passcodes again?” Tarkin brushes Krennic with his shoulder as he walks past.

Krennic’s mouth shifts into a beguiling curl. “Would you rather suffer a minor inconvenience or would you rather this entire vessel explode like a supernova? ” He sighs heavily whilst idly spinning the DS-1 holoprojection round and round, gazing admiringly at its intricacies, its stunning beauty. This miracle of engineering, sublime devastator. Did Tarkin just touch him on purpose? Krennic still wonders if the man is even worthy of breathing the air it generates within its graceful shell, let alone _commandeering_ it. And Tarkin definitely touched him on purpose, he is very sure of it now. It is fortuitous that he has caught Wilhuff in a flirtatious mood, as he suspects the next bit of his report is not going to go over very well.

Krennic clears his throat. “In totality, the scheduled completion of these modifications still stands at five standard months.”

Tarkin is quiet for a few torturous moments, thoughtfully stroking his jaw. Krennic steels himself, squares his shoulders as Tarkin approaches and leans close to the shell of his ear. “It is _very_ lucky for you that I had the foresight to preemptively lower my expectations. If five months is what you require, five months it shall be.”

The lack of resistance almost catches Krennic off guard, surprise evident in his widened eyes. “It is nothing short of miraculous that you’re approaching this situation with more sense. So you’ve spoken to the Emperor, then?” He relaxes his stance, distracted by Tarkin’s bittersweet woodland fragrance so out of place in this sleek fortress of steel.

“The Emperor fears that the Rebellion is quickly gaining traction. I don’t disagree. The likes of Bail Organa and Mon Mothma are problematic to the establishment of the new order. We will stave off the threat for the time being. In the meantime, Orson—focus on your task.”

Krennic can feel the jut of Tarkin’s cheekbone against his skin. He tilts his mouth towards it, kissing the fine hollowness underneath the bone. “Do you still adhere to your _recommendation_ that I sleep lightly?”  
  
Arrogance is layered into Wilhuff’s smooth voice like cold honey. “That depends on how effectively you manage to carry out your timetable for the port modifications.”

Orson offers the governor a cloying smile. “Sometimes, Wilhuff, I get the impression that you’d like to cause me great bodily harm.”

“One could say the same about you.” Tarkin briefly cups Orson’s chin, teasing him with a pinch.

Krennic scowls and petulantly swats Tarkin’s hand away, though he does not make an effort to remove himself from the governor’s vicinity. “Then let’s not stand in each other’s way. When this project is successfully completed, and finally _secure_ once and for all…it will be glorious. That much at very _least_ , I can promise you. Its greatness will be _unparalleled_.”

“And what will this greatness bring to the galaxy?”

“Something even better than fear.”

“And that would be?…”

Krennic stares up at Tarkin with boy’s eyes impossibly blue.

“Silence.” 


End file.
